She moved through the shop toward the narrow staircase that led up to her apartment, Thallos following close behind. The stairs creaked their familiar greeting as she climbed.
Her apartment looked exactly as she'd left it yesterday morning—except for one thing.
A note sat propped against the coffee maker, written on Bloom & Vine stationery in Daisy's distinctive looping handwriting.
Darling,
Didn't want to wake you—you looked so peaceful when I peeked in last night, and that handsome satyr of yours seemed determined to keep you that way. I've decided to head to Sedona after all! A woman I met at the festival told me about an absolutely transformative crystal healing retreat, and you know how I feel about transformation.
Don't worry, I'll be back soon. I'm thinking… six months? Maybe sooner! Definitely in time to help plan the wedding. I saw the way that male looks at you—it's only a matter of time before he proposes. I have EXCELLENT taste in mother-of-the-bride dresses.
Try not to overthink everything while I'm gone. And maybe buy some lingerie that isn't cotton. Just a thought!
All my love,
Mom
P.S. I borrowed forty dollars from the register. Will pay you back!
She read the note twice, her emotions cycling through relief, exasperation, and something that might have been fondness—if she squinted.
"What does it say?" He appeared at her shoulder, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
Wordlessly, she handed him the note.
His eyebrows climbed steadily as he read, until they nearly disappeared into his hairline. When he reached the end, a laugh burst out of him—loud and genuine and startling in the quiet apartment.
"She peeked in on us?"
"That's what you're focusing on?" She snatched the note back, her face burning. "Not the part where she's already planning our wedding? We haven't even—I mean, it hasn’t even been two months of actually being together, and she's talking about mother-of-the-bride dresses!"
"To be fair, she does have excellent taste." He caught her hands before she could start stress-organizing the nearest surface. "Marigold. Breathe."
"I'm breathing!"
"You're not. You're doing that thing where you hold your breath and your shoulders creep up toward your ears and you start mentally color-coding your stress levels."
She forced herself to exhale. Her shoulders dropped from somewhere around her earlobes. "I don't color-code my stress levels."
"You have a notebook specifically for it. I've seen it."
"That's… different." She pulled away, needing to move, and found herself at the kitchen window. The view showed rooftops and chimney pots and, in the distance, the green smudge of the vineyard where everything had changed last night. "She's just so?—"
"Daisy."
"Yes." The word came out somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "She's very Daisy."
He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on top of her head. They stood there in silence for a moment, watching a pair of birds chase each other across the morning sky.
"You know," he said eventually, his voice carefully casual, "we could always elope."
Her breath caught.
"What?"
"Elope. You, me, a spontaneous trip to somewhere beautiful, a simple ceremony with no mother-of-the-bride dress drama." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "No pressure, no planning, no Daisy."
"Are you—" She turned in his arms to face him, searching his expression for any sign that he was joking. His golden-brown eyes were warm, steady, completely serious. "Are you actually proposing right now?"
